Poetry

Fox Three hunts they went a-hunting A Fox to catch that day But never a Fox like our Fox Did ever come their way.         With a heigh-ho, Tally-ho,         The Fox he went away. From Badger's Wood to Dimply Green Like lightning gone away A merry chase. A hell of a pace Our Foxy led the way.         With a heigh-ho, Tally-ho,         The Fox he went away. The hounds they stormed the man nests And Fox he laughed all day Through house and field and stream and weald         He made the hound-dogs bay.         With a heigh-ho, Tally-ho, The Fox he went away. 'Twas in the villain's garden That Fox met death that day He fought with might and fury And made the bad man pay.         With a heigh-ho, Tally-ho,         The Fox he went away. They sing his praise with muted breath For miles around, they say, A brave Fox, a valiant Fox And shout hooray, hooray.         With a heigh-ho, Tally-ho,         They shout hooray, hooray. Taken from The Battle for Badger's Wood by Frederick Covins © 1974, 1983, 1984

The Swallows don’t come here anymore Harbingers of Summer they came, Six thousand miles they flew Over desert, sea, mountain and plain. Four ounces, swift and aerobatic in the sun, Beauty unrestrained. In Egypt they cross the Sarah desert, Five hundred miles of blistering heat, Cold nights and daylight’s burning sun. Many fall exhausted, dying into the soft sand. At the African and French coasts They are relentlessly netted to provide pate For the greedy gourmets of either land. With late and early winters many succumb To the high altitudes and snow covered peaks Of the Alps and the Pyrenees. Returning home to Africa, another six thousand miles, They face their greatest nemesis, The reed bed spraying aeroplanes, Issuing white clouds of death to the Tetse Fly. Great flocks of Swallows fly into these clouds And spiral earthwards in an agony of death and The earth lies crucified by a thousand feathered nails. Our Swallows don’t come here anymore.

Footnote:

Ever year as soon as our Swallows arrived they flew directly into the house and flew around the room piping their arrival calls and then flew out to find their nesting site. We were always overjoyed to greet them. Two years ago they actually nested in the roof of our porch! At first we worried about how they would get in and out if we shut the front door at night? They demonstrated a very brilliant solution when we tried partially closing the door, they simply flew down and out through the letter box, which fortunately had no flap, and then promptly zoomed back in, smirking I swear! After that we had a beautiful relationship whereby they sat upon the upper edge of the open inner door and watched and chattered as we went about our routines. My Swallow speak is a little rusty, but I did try to communicate our delight and I honestly think they at least understood the tone. They had two chicks who they introduced and taught their flying and insect catching skills. Again the time came to leave and once again they came in and cried their goodbyes. It was always a sad time, but never as sad as that last, because they never came back.

Hitherto Unpublished Verses from the First World War
		Some people write for riches Some people write for fame But I cannot do either So I humbly write my name Pte. M. Kershaw. Ist Battalion. Border Regiment. Tommy had a little wound His bandage looked so nice That everywhere he went in Malvern They let him in half-price. Pte. R. Mitchell 4th Battalion. Royal Berks. 30.11.16 When I listed - a braw Scotch laddie - They gie'd me a tartan kilt, Wi hues like a Paisley pladie Displayed on a patchwork quilt. But noo, doon the lines I warkie Like a grizzly bear arrayed, For ah'm Jock o' the clan McKhaki In the hobble-skirt brigade. They've khakied ma braw Scotch bonnet, They've khakied ma pipe-clayed spats, Ah've a khaki belt an' beyon' it A sporran of khaki mats. Ah'v a coat wi khaki cord on, But O! whaur ma kiltie joins Can I look like a gay gay Gordon Wi a sackcloth round ma loins? Should you hear on the field o' battle, Abune o' the crash o' shells, Abune o' the cannon's rattle An' the hearty English yells, Abune the machine-gun's barkie A cheer that your ear drums crack, It's Jock o' the clan McKhaki Who's gotten his kiltie back. 10627 Corporal J. Burns, 2nd Battalion, The Gordon Highlanders. (Wounded at Ypres on 29th October 1914) Oh! to wake on some fair morning with the knowledge, 'Nevermore shall the bloody tide of battle break on European shore!' And to know the fuller freedom, long the nation's great desire, Doth enfold earth with a glory born of Brotherhood's fire. From the hearts of mighty cities, to the island of the sea, In a lustre like the sunshine, earth is drenched in liberty. Whilst the joyous years roll onwards 'till the Golden Age is won. And the dream is dreamt no longer for the greatest deed is done. Pte. R.. Il. I. Hill. April '17 Ye nymphs, oppress'd by Wor'ster's stagnant air, To Malvern's high aerial walks repair, Where springs, and gales, their mutual aid dispense, To purge the blood, and quicken every sense; Here the pale face its former tints resumes, And every charm with fresher beauty blooms; Haste, then, ye nymphs, and range awhile at large, So shall ye save for paint an annual charge. Unknown. All taken from Malvern Between the Wars by Frederick Covins c.1981

Dungeon Deep Long, groping, black fingers of Obscene shadow Crept Cloven hooved Along the darkening walls. In the dripping forest Subdued, But awakening Furies softly cackled. Nymphs and Naiads hid in shame. Wet leaves rustled As Imps, Sucuba, Familiars, Trolls and Harpies Rushed To heed their Master’s call. Depravity and corruption Stalked The silent chambers and Those not yet asleep Covered their heads And lay Atremble. Formless shapes Slide From cracks and through cracks, Seeking The source Of this night’s Abomination. Deep In a thick-walled chamber, Infamy Danced hand in hand With profanity. A thousand Putrid, Vile ectoplasms Gibbered silently As Lord Ahriman Entered The welcoming soul Of the host, Naked Before the rack. Not before the first Dull Leavening of light Watered The darkness Did the obscene forms Flee To their myriad hiding places. A ‘found’ poem taken from Frederick Covins’s latest novel Satan's Fuehrer

Further travels with Fred – fasten your seat belts!

The ferry across to Santander in Spain turned out to be a very bad joke. The sea, even in the Bay of Biscay, was like a millpond, yet the ferry wallowed around and heeled over like an old waterlogged scow. Didn’t actually see anyone being sick, but there were some very funny coloured, grim faced people and an awful lot of leftovers at dinner.

Ran smack into a roadblock in Santander; Guardia armed to the teeth like very bad Hollywood extras, ‘mal hombres’ and very unfunny - tried desperately not to look like a Basque in disguise.

Got pattern of travel established first day; arrive campsite early evening, eat, get smashed out of our coconuts, sleep, wake, shower (cold brrrr!), play tennis, swim, back on road. Seems reasonable to me, but Maggie not too keen on new idea of getting smashed in the morning as well... can’t think why.

Got the language thing sussed, all you need to know is “Dos grandes botellas muy barato (cheap) vino tinto/blanca, por favor” and you get two large bottles of Fred’s medicine at 40-50 pence a litre.

We’ve taken three days to cross Spain - my way; I have this penchant for obscure, grass-growing-up-the-middle back roads. On Spanish maps these are yellow roads, on English maps they’d just about rate a dotted line, but one can do about fifty miles to the bottle.

Absolutely fantastic countryside that changes dramatically with almost every bend in the road; vast, rugged mountains, rolling, barren hills, vast tracts of nothing but sun flowers as far as the eye can see, olive and orange groves, wild figs, almonds and walnuts, tree after tree of locust beans, miles of wild Spanish type rhododendron and azaleas, cypresses and a million other varieties I’ve never even seen. Everything bone dry and bleached white by the sun. In the back-of-beyond villages there is poverty and dereliction everywhere. But the people appear proud and to actively resist progress, ie. hydro-electric schemes to improve their lot, or so the authorities would have you believe, but I’m not sure the so-called peasants haven’t got it right in the first place. Nothing here has changed in a thousand years; they still cut the corn with hand-sickles and seem content with all but bureaucracy.

Met our first English people today (Saturday) from Bath. Useful contact co’s they knew of a place in Valencia with wine at twenty-seven pesetas a litre - that’s almost fifteen pence! I reckon if I filled the water tank in the wagon that’d be twelve gallons on tap - wow! Maggie says that at fifteen pence a litre it would probably rot the tank... spoilsport.

Spanish drivers are fun, they drive with their mouth and their horn...’drive’ is a euphemism for aim! They don’t give a damn for their cars - or anyone else’s - they just hurl them around until they fall apart from sheer metal-fatigue (or relief), they then dump them in the ditch and get another. My theory is that they all hate driving so much they try to make their journeys as short as possible - and in order not to frighten themselves they shut their eyes!

I love Spanish camp-site proprietors who listen patiently and po-faced to your painful Spanish stammering until they’ve extracted the last ounce of amusement and then answer in perfect English.

The Cantabrian mountains are sheer magic and the roads... I fall about hysterically every time I call them roads... are one-in-three gradients with more pot-holes than our farm drive at home.

In the mountain villages the inhabitants, sitting in the shade from the midday sun, seemed to be surprised to see us. But I noticed that when we had passed and they’d seen the GB sticker they nodded knowingly to each other and tapped their foreheads significantly - a sort of peasant obeisance I suppose?

I’ve discovered one of the great pleasures in life and really the only way to drive. A baguette in one hand, a Spanish cheese of unknown origin, but rather like a crumbly Wenslydale, in the other and a bottle of red-biddy chambreing between the naked thighs (shorts, you naughty people) to keep it nicely at body temperature. Man! That’s livin’. Can’t think of a thing to match it... well, not quite.

That First Time!

I was thirteen, I’d been to a Boys Brigade camp near Saundersfoot and met an exciting young lady of similar age who was a maid at a nearby hotel. Anxious to capitalise on this acquaintance I returned to Saundersfoot the following year and booked myself into a boarding house. We consummated our ‘reunion’ under a laurel bush in the hotel grounds during a thunderstorm. We were thoroughly wet, overexcited and it was, in retrospect, thoroughly unsatisfactory, but at the time wildly exciting; premature ejaculation not withstanding.

On my return to the boarding house I found myself locked out. I managed to lever up the front sash window and affect an entrance, trudging muddily across the lounge carpet. In my room, still shaking with the magic of concupiscence I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the hands that had so recently touched the untouchable. The room swam dizzily before my eyes and God’s voice thundered in my ears “SINNER!” He had justly punished me. He had turned my fingers PURPLE! Surely this was some dreadful pox visited upon me for my sins. I rushed to the sink and scrubbed desperately at my contaminated fingers, but to no avail. I returned to the bed, sat down and cried for the longest time, my hands held out in front of me so as not to contaminate anything with my diseased fingers. God was kind and eventually allowed me to sleep, albeit fitfully. With daylight came sanity and memory… navy school knickers… pouring rain… dye?

Enjoying a wee dram...

Can you believe that I once drank, aided and abetted by my wife, a bottle of single malt whisky valued at £22,000 (approx $40,000)!!!! In 1960 we were on honeymoon in Cornwall, staying at a hotel in Mullion Cove, when we decided to have a look around the town of Penzance. Wandering around the shops we came across a small grocery store and inside we found a bottle of single malt whisky. It was very expensive at £12.50, but what the hell we thought this was a special occasion so we bought it and carried our prize back to the hotel where over two to three days we drank it, enjoyed it and thought no more about it… until… Last year a single bottle of twenty year old Macallan fetched £20,000 in auction, this year a second bottle of twenty year old Macallan fetched £22,000 in auction.

Bad Days

Should you ever consider that you are having a bad day think on this: Norman (a showman friend) called last night, he's just returned from an intended several weeks in Spain - or at least until the money ran out. A few months back he and his aunt were burgled and their collection of Royal Dux figures were taken. The insurance company forked out £40k.

Because his aunt didn't want to stay in the caravan that had been broken into he sold it and bought another. He also bought himself a BMW car and a 30' x 8' x 11' motorhome. Within days he crashed the BMW and thought he'd written it off, but the insurance said no and shelled out £10k to have it put back on the road.

Having had a solar panel fitted to the roof of the motorhome and a petrolyte gas tank fitted (petrol does 10 miles to the gallon, petrolyte gas 20 mpg), Norman set out for Spain. Once in Spain, having wiped out four wing-mirrors of other cars he topped it off by backing into a brand-new, latest model, sports car and reducing the back end to scrap metal. This was an irate owner and police job. Driving away, eventually, he wiped out yet another wing mirror, only this time the owner was on hand and gave chase. Prolonged negotiations took place.

Having by now run out of money, Norman headed for home. Driving via Bournemouth and Brighton he demolished yet more wing mirrors, a tree and several wheelie bins (garbage bins on wheels). He decided to visit friends in Stoke on Trent. In the Handsworth (Birmingham) area he fell asleep and sideswiped another car. The owner was a large, very large, black West Indian Rastafarian with attitude! This gentleman removed Norman's keys and wouldn't give them back until several 'guilty' statements had been made and indemnity given.

Norman proceeded to Stoke and on arriving at his friend's was surprised to see a neighbour rushing out waving her arms at him. On dismounting he too was alarmed to see smoke gushing from below the bonnet. Without hesitation he dived back into the motorhome and retrieved his valuables, including his clothes, just as the fire brigade arrived. The motorhome was a write-off.

Later, now driving his repaired BMW, he stopped at a cash point in Birmingham to get some money… he left the car unlocked! On his return he found his new leather jacket gone and the radio! He now has four insurance claims against him, plus his own claims for the motorhome and the car radio. What do you think of his chances of getting a reasonable insurance quote next time?

A Small Boy Excited

Many friends loved the WW2 story of my childhood days and asked for more. I tried to explain that these were childhood memories where despite the murder and mayhem of the bombing raids to a child the most important things were the shortage of fruit and sweet rationing! Included here is a poem by my cousin, Peter, who lived about half a mile from where we lived, it does explain perfectly how the war affected a child and I couldn’t have put it better myself.

		A Small Boy Excited Mick slinks slyly into our shelter Mongrel ears have heard the drone Then sirens howl and after We hear what Mick has heard alone A small boy excited Recognise the Junkers, Heinkel or Dornier Whilst scrambling for the shelter Flattened ears, fur and rolling eyes Warm blanket encouraging reassuring lies A small boy excited Silver paper enemy bombers shower To confuse the British radar Malleable, shiny and good for sculptor Gathered into shiny snowballs to enrapture A small boy excited Crump, crump a house has gone Crump, crump there's another one Shivering not from cold Mom and dog if truth were told A small boy excited Tracer bullets past the window A small boy running to see Yanked back a mother's smack The boy struggling to be free A small boy still excited Shrapnel through the kitchen door Plaster showering o'er the floor Tracer bullets piercing a shed so near Another siren sounding the all clear A small boy excited Emerging dog shaking imaginary water Curses unspoken but not by the youngster Sweep, sweep up the plaster Cheerful doggie tail and so to slumber A small boy excited With other boys and not a thought Of death, misery and disaster The houses rubble scoured for plaster To use as chalk their only thought Lots of small boys excited. By Peter G Pigden (Aged 68 years)

One of my most exciting memories occurred one night when an incendiary bomb crashed through the glass of the veranda roof, landed on the concrete patio floor and DIDN’T EXPLODE! A visiting uncle on leave from the army threw himself on the floor yelling “DOWN EVERYBODY!” Grandad, stepped over him muttering “Get up you silly bugger, you’re frightening the kids.” Far from frightened we ‘kids’ (myself and my mate, Dennis) peered out from the steel table shelter built in the living room and watched in excited awe as Grandad opened the veranda doors, stepped out onto the patio and picked up the incendiary bomb. He then proceeded to WALK down the garden followed by yells of “For God’s sake run!” which he calmly ignored. At the bottom of the garden he dumped the bomb on the compost heap and tipped a fire bucket of sand over it. At that moment it exploded and set fire to absolutely nothing! Grandad returned completely unfussed and said to my mother “Isn’t it time you got the kettle on?”

I should add that whenever the sirens sounded, my mate Dennis was brought around and we were consigned to the table shelter, a place that we had very thoughtfully packed with goodies during the day – sweets, fruit from the garden and anything else we could lay our thieving hands on! The rest of the family simply sat around and chatted, played darts or cards and drank beer! A wonderful attitude to war.

Poetry 12

The Fantasy of Reality There was a time, I don’t quite remember when, My mind worked ahead of me At things I scarcely knew In a world of my imagination, Where only nice things happened And horrid things were few. I think they called it fantasy, Though to me it was all new, My friends were real, The fields were real, But reality was overdue. I still play games inside my head, But now I write them down And fantasy becomes reality In a world of words renown. "Once upon a time..."

The Last Sabre Charge of the Yeomanry - 1917 Under the African sun On the burning sands of the Huj. Armed with sabres and incredible courage They charged rather than run. The men of the Worcestershire Yeomanry Faced twenty-thousand men, Three Howitzers, twenty-one artillery guns, The weaponry of the Hun. They were told ‘Just point your weapon and aim Let the speed of your horse do the rest.’ Blades slashing and flashing they charged Like demons they rode, setting the desert aflame. Sand billowing, voices screaming in the sun, They charged a superior foe, Fear entered the enemy and even before the end Every Yeoman was a hero as the enemy started to run. One hundred and eighty one cavalry Scattered the Turks across the desert And Sabred alongside their weaponry Killed all the artillery men. Thirty-six heroes died and fifty-seven were injured, But by a hundred years or more They set back the Ottoman Empire, A feat unequalled in war.

Worcestershire Yeomanry at Huj in the Sinai Desert at 1.30pm on 8th November 1917, just before the final British Cavalry Charge against guns

Additional Information: For a personal recollection of the Cavalry Charge at Huj, by Corporal Darcy Jones of the Worcestershire Yeomanry, please click here.

The Economics of War “Send ten thousand men.” “Make sure you’ve got the body bags To bring them back again.”

The end of the beginning Somewhere there was a beginning, But I am near the end. Could it be, in this frenetic, confused world, That I am nearer the beginning than the end? Is the end really only the beginning?

Unspoken The loneliness of one Is nothing compared to the loneliness Of two who do not speak. That is a loneliness That withers up the soul.

Shadows Night, when all the shadows Become lurking dragons Waiting to pounce. And the shadows of the mind Become unspoken horrors And overwhelming obsessions.

Brute force Brutes blare their artificial suns, Hissing, spitting carbon-arcs; A cacophony of chiaroscuro.

Silence There is silence, Then a whisper of wind Shivers the leaves. The Wind becomes a light breeze Twigs rustle and dance in happy obedience. The wind encouraged by this dance Grows ever stronger, more demanding, Branches begin to sway and bend Until entire trees are thrashing to the Tune of an increasingly dominant wind. Anger is emphasized by a darkening sky That growls and laughs harshly. Black clouds applaud loudly With flashing drumsticks of light. Encouraged by the thunderstruck sky The wind turns into a howling hurricane, That sends man’s toys tumbling Around like so much rubbish. Cars and caravans roll and clatter around, Tiles fly from the roofs of buildings and Rafters crack and sway whilst man himself Scurries from hiding place to hiding place, Finding none from the probing fingers Of the fiercesome shrieking wind. Trees tear their roots from the earth, Their death throes crashing and thrashing Everything in their stricken falling. Walls and buildings crumble and rumble into A nothingness of a land laid to waste. The wind pauses to look around at the destruction It has wrought and passes on, nature triumphant. And then in the aftermath There is silence.